


I'll Be Seeing You

by mostfamousestofhobbits



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 20:59:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2746856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostfamousestofhobbits/pseuds/mostfamousestofhobbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Musician/starving artist missed opportunities au. Bonus Tony Stark sass and wisdom. (Yes, Tony Stark can be wise. Amazeballs.) <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JSIodQjUSmg">Title song.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Seeing You

**Author's Note:**

> I PUT CAPITAL LETTERS IN NOW I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY RANDOM PERSON WHO SAID THEY WERE TURNED OFF AND RUINED MY DAY. This one is sad. Also, I am evil. Also also: Huehuehue.

Leaning on the counter of his uncle’s music store, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes sighed, good hand twitching. It was deader than his severed arm. There was nobody walking the streets of Brooklyn on this wet November day. His left hand twitched, and he tried not to look at it. Something drew his eyes to the street. Bucky had never heard anyone whistle a 40s-era clarinet solo, but this skinny blond kid was doing his damndest. He was about 5’ 4”, with a leather jacket three sizes too big for him, baggy skinny jeans (oxymoron much?) with holes in the knees, black rectangular glasses that looked like they were about to fall off his face, a faded American flag scarf, and a worn t-shirt with Bing Crosby’s face on it. He glanced Bucky’s way and raised his eyebrows briefly in greeting. Bucky nodded and waved his bad hand. He’d never seen someone change direction that quickly. The blond kid nearly tripped over his disproportionately large boots, but he managed to make it over to the window of the store and peer in at Bucky. His attention was quickly drawn to the antique wind-up record player in the corner. His eyes widened, and he adjusted his glasses nervously. He glanced down at his jacket pocket, glanced back at the phonograph, glanced up at the stairs leading to the crappy apartments above the music store, shook his head, and sighed. He awkwardly waved and shrugged at Bucky with an abashed grin and turned back toward the stairs. Bucky stared for a bit, then shook his head. Kid was cute. Probably illegal, but eh.

Bucky kept an eye out for the kid after that. Sometimes he’d be dropped off by a beautiful red 1970 Chevelle (Bucky had looked it up), other times he’d be walking home with multiple sizes of sketchbooks under his arm and a rolling suitcase half his size. He was always coming home by 4:45. Bucky stopped watching the clock to know when to close the store, because the blond kid was punctual. One time he dropped his sketchbooks. Papers flew out everywhere in the street. It had rained the night before, and some of them landed in puddles. Bucky was halfway out the door when a very fit black guy burst out the apartment door and started helping. Blondie and black guy greeted each other with a nod, blondie with a sheepish grin and black guy with a weary smile and shake of the head. The thought, ‘What if they’re dating?’ nearly made it to the forefront of Bucky’s mind. He quashed that thought as quickly as he could, but it lingered. He began to watch for the fit black guy.  


“FBG” would leave for work as Bucky was unlocking the store at the absurd hour of 6 am to do prep for opening. He was always dressed up a little. Probably had a cushy office job or something. Why he lived in the shitty apartments above the store was a mystery, but hey, this was Brooklyn. FBG was always home by 3. He, too, seemed interested in the phonograph. He peered in, looking around until he spotted it, and had a considering look on his face. Bucky caught his eye and nodded with a smile. FBG smiled back (and god, was he pretty).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The store didn’t do much business, but Bucky’s uncle owned the apartments above it as well, so they made enough to get by. They did finally hire a cashier (at Bucky’s insistence), a petite redhead named Natasha with killer thighs and a very shapely figure. She had a fondness for bubblegum and _Guns & Ammo_. Bucky tried to pry something out of her, but she just smiled and responded with vague half-truths (well, probably half. He wasn’t sure) about being kicked out of the School of American Ballet for fighting.

“Fighting? With who?”

“With _whom,_ ” she replied, idly turning the pages of Rainbow Rowell’s _Fangirl_. He rolled his eyes and went to go polish the Steinway in the corner. It was the only real piano the store could fit in it, and it was beautiful. It was unusual in that it was a deep mahogany Chippendale model, and Bucky itched to try it out one day. But he was still unsure of himself. He’d managed to play a decent _Claire de Lune_ on his little upright back home, but he didn’t want to damage the Steinway’s keys with his bad hand. It was strange, playing with his bad hand. His nerves remembered all the appropriate movements, but his hand had no muscle with which to have memories, and it felt… dissonant, like hearing two records playing the same song in different keys. He’d gotten the experimental arm through a free trial his parents had signed him up for, and he loved it, he really did. He could feel things, like the coldness of a soda can or the smoothness of piano keys. But it was still strange. He had phantom limb and a prosthetic arm. It was very peculiar.

He’d managed to play a little jazz on the clarinet, which was a relief. He’d also managed to play his Irish pennywhistle, which cheered him up to no end. His bad hand was a little stiff, but it was to be expected. He’d have to tweak it as best he could. His doctor had insisted he take it off and clean it as often as possible, but he ignored that in favor of mobility. It was a security thing, a sort of comfort blanket. He'd tried wearing gloves while playing, and that had worked out pretty well. He was just worried about mobility. It was hard to do arpeggios and chords. Scales were alright, if he went slowly. Violin was right out. He didn't want to damage the neck, and the strings would have been hell on his plastic fingertips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One wet day just before Thanksgiving, Blondie came into the shop. The gentle electric bell played out Beethoven's Fifth, and he started and looked around for the source of the sound. He shook himself and headed straight to the counter. Nat looked up from the register and cleared her throat. Bucky reluctantly tore himself away from the Steinway and strode over to the counter.

"Can I help you?" Blondie turned around with a shy smile.

"Well, that depends." His voice was very deep and he spoke somewhat quickly, like he wasn't sure his words were getting out in time. "How much is that record player?" Bucky raised his eyebrows.

"Well, it's an antique, so that'll up the price." Blondie nodded. "I'll have to ask my uncle, but i'd put it at four fifty." Blondie's face fell a little, but he pulled out a wad of twenties and counted out four sixty. Bucky chuckled.

"Let me text him and make sure, okay?" Blondie nodded. Bucky pulled out his phone.

They waited for a response, Blondie leaning first on one foot, then on the other. he cracked his neck and winced. He was wearing a Green Lantern shirt under a black and white plaid flannel shirt.

"So why that old thing?" Bucky asked. Blondie sighed, grinning sadly.

"It's for my roommate. He has PTSD from being in SF, some kind of experimental unit involving single-person non-plane flight. When he gets bad, he drinks, and when he drinks, he cries and gets panicky. Only thing that calms him down is old 30s and 40s records. I can sing to him sometimes, but other times..." He shrugged. "I just wish I could do more for him, get him involved in some kind of therapy or something.” He sighed. “Preferably something with music." Bucky's ears perked up.

"Music therapy? Y'know, I was in school for that, before the accident." He waved his bad arm. "Had two classes left before my certification."

"Really?" Blondie looked so hopeful it nearly made Bucky kiss him then and there. "Would you be willing to help us out? We'd pay you, of course." Bucky smiled.

"Anything for a soldier." His phone beeped. The text read, _Give it to him for 250_. Bucky held out his phone. Blondie's face lit up like a sunbeam on a cloudy day.

"Let's get your change." Nat opened the drawer and pulled out a 10. Blondie handed over the cash with a shy smile. Nat glanced at Bucky, then Blondie, and hid a smile by licking her lips.

“When’s the wedding?” she asked slyly. Bucky nearly choked, while Blondie stared and cocked his head.

“I think we should at least get introduced first.” Blondie said, straight-faced. After Nat handed him the change, he turned and stuck out his hand. “Steve Rogers.” Bucky took the delicate bony hand and shook it, feeling its softness.

“Bucky Barnes.” Steve smiled.

“I’ll get Sam down here at some point this week, probably around 3:30.”

“You can come after closing. I’ve got keys.” Steve looked up hopefully.

“You sure? I wouldn’t want you getting into trouble.” Bucky smiled.

“It’s no problem.” Steve smiled and nodded his thanks. “You need help getting that beast upstairs?” Steve looked at the phonograph.

“Yeah, probably. I can barely lift twenty pounds.” Bucky smiled and headed over to the record player. He took off the horn with a little effort (the screws were somewhat stripped), and waved Steve over. Steve took the horn, hefting it a little.

“Heavier than it looks,” he said.

“It is brass. You want me to take things up one at a time?” Steve shook his head.

“I can manage.”

They trekked up the stairs, going slowly so they didn’t damage the record player (or Steve, Bucky thought to himself). It was an old Edison, with a beautiful fluted horn. Steve went first, and Bucky worried he might not make it. His apartment was three flights above the store, and Steve was breathing pretty heavily by the final step.

“You alright?” Steve took a deep breath to calm himself, and nodded, looking down at Bucky.

“Yeah. this thing is ah, s’pretty heavy.” Bucky shook his head. Steve put down (actually dropped) the horn next to door 307, and knocked, one-two-three four five. Fit Black Guy opened the door with a frown.

“Stevie, what’re you doing? You’re late, man.” Steve smiled and picked up the horn.

“Surprise.” FBG looked confused. He glanced at Bucky, then down at the record player, then his eyes widened.

“No. Oh no you didn’t.” Steve laughed and shrugged. “Oh my god, Steve, what- how-” Steve shouldered past him into the apartment, and Bucky slid by with a grin. “But that thing must’ve cost-” Steve dropped the horn onto a beat-up blue sectional with a sigh of relief.

“Remember, Sam, we talked about that. No worrying about money, just accepting good things.” Sam bit his lip, eyes starting to water. “Thanks to Bucky, we got ourselves an honest-to-God record player. Now all we gotta do is dust off those records and jam.” Sam closed his eyes and shook his head, sniffing. Clearing his throat, he shook his head and extended his hand to Bucky.

“Thank you so much, man.” Bucky shook his hand firmly, balancing the bottom half of the record player on his knee.

“You’re welcome.”

“Here, let me take that.” Sam picked the turntable up gently, reverently. “An Edison? Niiiice.” He smiled, and his face looked like Christmas morning. Steve cleared what looked like life drawing sketches off an old hexagonal end table.

“Bring it over here.” sSam walked like he was carrying the infant Christ, setting the turntable down gingerly. Bucky picked up the horn and dusted it off as best he could with his good hand. He made it over to the end table and screwed it in. The three stood back and admired the record player. It gleamed dully in the dim afternoon light beaming from the window behind it. Bucky leaned on one foot and glanced at Steve and Sam. Sam had his arm around Steve’s shoulders and was hugging him. They didn’t look like a couple. more like brothers. That was good. Bucky rubbed his hands together.

“Why don’t we test it out?” Sam practically jumped into the closet to the left of the couch. Steve smiled, watching him flip through a shelf full of records. Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“How many records do you _have_?” Steve chuckled.

“A lot more where that came from. Sam inherited a bunch from his grandma, who got them probably right when they came out. She worked at a record store in Harlem, back in the day. The rest he hunted down on Amazon and overseas. He’s got some amazing finds.” Sam turned around holding a record in each hand.

“Bing or Benny Goodman?” Steve thought about it.

“I vote Bing,” Bucky offered. Steve nodded. Sam looked like a kid at Christmas. He put one record back and pulled the other out of its sleeve. He got everything set up, then wound up the turntable. There was a breathless pause, then strings began.

_Do I want to be with you, as the years come and go?_

Sam broke out in a grin, and they all stared at the spinning plastic as Bing crooned about being with a girl only forever. Sam’s shoulders were slowly lowering, and Steve looked up at him happily. Bucky realized that Sam had been nearly panicking because Steve was late.

“So, did either of you take band in high school?” Bucky asked when the song was over.

“I took cello lessons for a while. Still have it somewhere,” said Steve. Sam shook his head.

“Man, I could barely play the recorder. I did do choir, so I know how to read music. Why?”

“Well, Steve mentioned that you love music, and I was in school for music. I was wondering if you guys would like piano lessons or something? It’d be pretty cheap, like ten-fifteen an hour, and I could let you fiddle around with whatever around the shop. It’s pretty dead most of the time, except for crotchety old ladies who insist that their grandson really does like his violin lessons and deserves a proper instrument. I dunno. It might be nice to have some people around.” Bucky hoped he’d evaded the PTSD topic well. Sam looked down, then gave Steve a look that turned into a grin and a chuckle.

“You son of a bitch.” He stared at the ceiling, laughing. “Hell yeah, I’d be interested. I’ve always liked the piano.” Bucky smiled. “What about you, Stevie?”

“I could use some cello practice. We could do duets or something!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wednesdays and Fridays became music days. Sam would come down at 3:30, smelling like Old Spice and a hint of whiskey, and Steve would show up at 4:45, always stowing his art supplies behind the counter by Nat. Nat would occasionally make suggestions as to what Steve could try to play next, and proved to be very useful as a cheerleader for Sam. Sam learned quickly, and Steve improved slowly but steadily. Sam played his first Mozart piece, _Ah, vous dirai je, maman!_ , and it was a rousing success. He made it through the first three variations without a hitch.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_We are fever, we are fever_

_We ain’t born typical…_

As Clay and Aisha made out and presumably had sex, Sam got up to refill the popcorn bowl. Alright, so it was an old Army helmet from WWII (where Steve got it, nobody knew. Steve said it had been his great-grandfather’s, Sam said he’d gotten it at a garage sale, and Bucky knew enough to let them bicker good-naturedly about it for ten minutes while he set up the TV/laptop connection), but it was a decent size for Sam and Bucky. Steve didn’t like salt on his popcorn, and anyway, the fake butter was hell on his digestive system. For some reason, it had a star on it, crudely painted on with what, nobody really wanted to know. Bucky leaned back into the couch/Sam’s bed, realizing that his ass was slightly asleep, and glanced over at Steve. Steve wasn’t paying attention to the sexiness on screen. He was actually doodling on his knuckles. “Klyn” on his left hand. Bucky tilted his head.

“Brooklyn,” Steve answered, fumbling with his pen a little. Bucky smiled. It still startled him to hear such a deep voice from such a small frame, but he was getting used to it. Bucky eyed the TV, then frowned and looked back at Steve.

“Not interested in hetero sex, are you?” Steve blushed (and damn, did his cheekbones stand out) and shook his head. Bucky’s hands twitched. He didn’t notice, and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “What are you interested in?”

“Jensen’s ass,” Sam announced, plopping himself onto the couch between Steve and Bucky. Steve grinned and bit his lip, laughing silently, embarrassed. Bucky’s eyebrows felt like they were migrating into his hairline.

“Jensen, huh?” Steve nodded, shrugging. “Hmm. I would’ve pegged you for Cougar.”

“Nah, that’s second. Jensen, Cougar, Pooch, Roque, Clay. I’m all about Clay an’ Roque.” Bucky’s jaw dropped.

“ _Roque_? What? Seriously?” Steve started giggling helplessly as Sam smacked Bucky’s good shoulder.

“Bro, you seein’ me with a dude? I’m all about Aisha. I mean, I don’t have much choice. Not gonna interfere with Pooch’s missus, so Aisha it is. Tell you what though,” he gingerly placed the helmet/bowl between his feet, “Jeffrey Dean Morgan is one hell of a fine-lookin’ man.” Steve nodded.

“Yes he is.” Bucky laughed incredulously. Maybe? Maybe. There was a maybe, which was good enough for him. He settled in and watched Pooch and Cougar fistbump into the scene change.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve’s face was flushed. He was panting, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Oh g-god. Bucky-”

“Shhh,” Bucky pushed harder, deeper. Steve gasped, shuddering delicately. Nat laughed, head down, red hair hiding her face. Sam looked on fondly.

“I used to do this for him,” he murmured to Nat. “Lately though, he’s needed a stronger touch.” Nat looked up at him, unblinking. “What? I may be strong, but Barnes has stamina. That’s the important thing.”

Bucky’s metal-and-plastic fingers began to whine as they sped up, rubbing faster and faster. His good hand followed suit.

“Y’can- you can tell you’re a, a pianist,” Steve panted. Bucky chuckled. “Ma-magic fingers.” Steve’s head fell forward, bobbing back and forth gently in time to Bucky’s touch. A few seconds later, steve gasped, “ _There!_ ” and Bucky stopped. Steve raised his head, face flushed. He let it fall backwards onto Bucky’s shoulder, breathing heavily.

“That,” he said between breaths, “was the best damn massage I’ve ever had.” Bucky laughed, his metal hand ghosting across Steve’s stomach briefly before he restrained himself and let it rest beside Steve’s hip.

“You need to stop sleeping on the goddamn floor,” Bucky chided gently. “I told you, I’ve got a spare mattress. Hell, I’ll buy you a mattress. Seeping bags are no substitute, and a leaky inflatable mattress isn’t much better.” Sam shifted uncomfortably against the wall. “Nobody’s mad at you, Sam. You need to sleep because you have to work. It’s alright.”

“I keep telling him we can switch every other night.” Steve wheezed out a laugh.

“Yeah, and have you waking up screaming because you’re having nightmares about Pakistan again? no thanks.” He raised his head and looked at Sam with a smile. “Besides, that couch is lumpy.” Sam shook his head.

“Fightin’ words, Stevie.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was December 18. Bucky had walked in on Nat and Sam making out, both of them shirtless. He’d quickly closed the door as quietly as he could, hoping they hadn’t heard him. He’d wanted to talk to them about Steve. He had a nasty cough that wasn’t going away after a week and a half, and Bucky was worried it was pneumonia or something else. The next day, Steve coughed so hard it brought on an asthma attack. Sam bolted up from the upright, knocking over the bench. Bucky fumbled in Steve’s bag for his inhaler. He found it, and vaulted over the counter, running over, dodging music stands and the woodwind display. He pushed the inhaler in and squeezed, releasing the spray. Steve calmed down after a few minutes. Bucky pulled the inhaler out, then froze. There was blood on it.

Everything stopped. Nat peered over Bucky’s shoulder, then pulled out her phone. Three beeps. A few seconds passed.

“Hi, I’d like an ambulance please.” She gave the address. “A twenty-five year old white male just coughed himself bloody into an asthma attack.” Sam’s face had de-aged into that of a frightened twelve-year old. Bucky couldn’t breathe. “Yes, I’ll stay on the line.”

Ten minutes later, there was a blare of sirens. Two EMTs came into the store with a gurney. Bucky and Sam helped Steve to his feet. Steve was pale, breathing hoarsely. There was a flurry of activity, then they were gone, Sam and Nat with Steve.

Bucky closed the store after they left. He took a deep breath, then realized he was lightheaded. He leaned on the counter, flexing his bad hand every so often, then headed for the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve had been in the hospital for a week. Sam had been in the store every day at 3 sharp, just sitting around or tinkering with the upright. He would bang out scales and chords and Hanon until Bucky feared for the keys, but it was good for business. People kept coming in and asking about it, and Bucky would explain about his music therapy, and people would leave with his contact info scribbled on receipt paper. Nat was always close to Sam. At least, within spitting distance. They didn’t talk much after their little nookie session, but they seemed to have a bond, a sort of mutual trust and want of and for each other. Bucky was relieved to see that Sam was keeping it together fairly well. He would go upstairs and eat takeout with Sam and Nat and have Laura Mvula listening sessions. She seemed to be one of the few things that Sam calmed down to without Steve being there.

After one of those takeout-Mvula sessions, Sam was still pretty uptight, so Bucky decided to let Nat work her magic and bowed out of watching the Nolan Batman trilogy. As he descended the stairs to the apartments, he noticed the red Chevelle sitting outside the store. The engine was running, but the headlights were off. They flicked on as he stepped into the chill of December in New York, and they blinked at him. Curious, he walked over to the driver’s side. The window rolled down, revealing a dark brown-haired man with a funky goatee and mustache. He raised his eyebrows in greeting and gave Bucky a quick glance.

“Jesus Christ, Steve’s got sexy friends.” Bucky blinked. “Get in. I need to talk to you about Stevie-boy.” Bucky stood there, getting cold. “Oh for the love of-look, I’m Tony Stark, I’m Steve’s art patron or whatever, and I need to talk to you about him. Capische?” Bucky stared. Tony Stark was a legend among fashion designers and car aficionados all across America, and perhaps even worldwide. He’d worked for Tesla for a while after doing high fashion in the eighties, then started his own company, Iron Man Technology. They specialized in green technology in high-performance vehicles. Jay Leno had one, as did many Middle Eastern sultans and several porn stars. Bucky shook himself and walked around to the passenger side. Tony leaned across and opened the door for him. Bucky slid into the car, which smelled like old leather and something else that he couldn’t quite place.

“You’re Bucky, right? Steve’s told me all about you.” Bucky grinned sheepishly.

“Hopefully nothing too terrible.” Tony chuckled as he put the car in drive.

They took side streets and byways, driving slowly, taking in the ashy slush-covered beauty of the city after midnight. Tony slowed down near some hookers, then shook his head and sped up again.

“Sorry. Old habits.” They drove in silence for about a minute, then he said, “I take it you love ol’ Stevie?” Bucky froze. “It’s easy to do. He’s got this earnestness, this want to do the right thing by everyone. Stand-up guy. He’d make a great politician. Incorruptible.” Bucky shifted uncomfortably. Tony glanced over and sighed, pulling into a little alley. He put the car in park and took his hands off the wheel, examining his nails. Bucky looked over. There was black gunk under Tony’s nails.

“Engine grease.” Tony picked at his pinky. “Gotta get under the hood of this baby every once in a while, make sure he’s still running good.” He dropped his hands into his lap and leaned his head back against the headrest. He looked Bucky dead in the eye and said, “He knows, Buck. At least, he suspects.” Bucky stared at Tony’s hands, then his own. “He doesn’t really swing that way. Believe me, I’ve tried to get him to bat for the other team, but even after we did the nasty, he was all ‘It was fun, but not really my style.’ Which, y’know, to each his own. But.” Tony gnawed his lip, then scratched the back of his head. “It’s just, y’know, I’ve been there. I have- had, she’s moved on in the company now- this secretary. Smokin’ hot, wicked smart, redhead. Gorgeous gal. Kept me,” he gestured vaguely, “grounded, I guess. There were some dark times, and she helped me through them, and I thought, y’know, I had feelings. And I did, looking back on it, now. I truly did. Still do, actually.” Tony sighed.

“Why are you telling me this?” Bucky asked. His voice sounded hollow to his ears.

“Because I don’t want you to think that there’s some sort of chance that isn’t there, because it really fucks you up, and it fucks them up, and then you have words, and awkward silences, and should I text first, or should I wait for them, and…" He sighed. “It’s messy. That’s all there is to it. It’s messy, and it hurts, and you really wish it hadn’t happened. I mean, it’s good, y’know, getting your feelings out there, but. It’s, it’s hard, and I just want you to know you don’t have to go through that kinda thing alone.” Bucky nodded mechanically. Tony squeezed Bucky’s bad shoulder.

“I also want you to know, that there’s nothing wrong with you. You aren’t the reason he doesn’t feel that way. You are whole, you are worthy, and you matter, just as much as he does. Don’t think you’re worthless. You’re not. Look at what you’ve done to help Sam. Look at what you’ve done to help Nat. Hell, look at what you’ve done to help Steve.” Bucky looked up at Tony, who was a little blurry. “Yeah. Yeah, you’ve helped him a lot since he’s known you. He’s got his own issues to sort out, mental stuff, and you being around and talking to him has really made him a lot more relaxed. He’s more confident, because he knows you’ve got his back, and Sam’s got his back, and Nat’s got his back. He’s got friends now. Most people don’t really look at him all the closely. They see a skinny artistic hipster kid, and they look the other way. You? You see him for what he really is. A star in dark places.” Bucky’s lips twitched upward. Tony took a deep breath.

“I also want you to know that it’s not his fault. He’s done nothing wrong. Nothing he can do about the way he feels, and there’s nothing you can do to change that. You shouldn’t try, either. Just let him be him and, well, frankly, get over yourself.” Bucky sniffed and nodded with a smile. Tony patted his shoulder.

“Good talk. I’ll drive you home.”

When they arrived at Bucky’s place, Tony turned to him and asked,

“You gonna be okay?” Bucky shrugged and chuckled mirthlessly. Tony pursed his lips, frowning. He reached over and grabbed Bucky’s good hand, fumbled in the glove compartment, and pulled out a Sharpie. He wrote his number on Bucky’s hand, then released it.

“Just in case, alright? You need anything, anything at all, a hug, a blowjob, a-” he paused. “Wow. I actually said that out loud.” Bucky sputtered, laughing incredulously. Tony shook his head. “Whatever. Still stands. Someone to talk to. Whatever you need, I’m here, alright? You don’t have to go through this alone.” Bucky nodded, smiling. “aAright, go on. Get some sleep. Text me so I know your number. I’m gonna go see Stevie in the morning. I’ll update you, okay?” Bucky nodded as he clambered out of the car, stiff from sitting for so long. Before he shut the door, Tony said,

“Hey.” Bucky bent over to see the older man’s face. “Remember: not your fault, not his fault, you’re both awesome, don’t be a dick. Alright?” Bucky nodded with a small smile. Tony grinned. “Alright. Laters.” Bucky closed the door gently, then put his hands in his pockets and watched Tony drive off. He stood there in the cold for a while, then rubbed his eyes with his good hand, sniffed, and started up the stairs to his place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was December 28th. Steve stood outside the doors to the Barnes Family Music Store. There was a sign in the door. it read, _Grand re-opening! Come back in January at our new location on 42nd Street!_ He peered in the window. The store was empty. No pianos, no violin stands, no upright bass, no accordions on the wall, no guitars crossed under the cymbals over the register, nothing. He sighed and looked up at the sky, up at his apartment with Sam. The light was on, which was a good sign. He faintly heard Benny Goodman through the window.

 _Darn that dream I dream at night_ …

He sighed and started up the stairs, going slowly. He stopped halfway because his chest started hurting, and stood there for a good ten minutes. When he finally reached the door, he heard a woman’s voice singing “I’ve Heard That Song Before.” He opened the door and saw Nat and Sam lying on the couch, Nat stroking Sam’s head on her chest as she sang. He stood in the doorway and watched until Nat was done singing. He smiled and started clapping. Sam jerked upright angrily, and stared. Nat turned around and grinned.

“Hey there, sicko. How you feeling?” she asked. Steve shrugged, sighing.

“Better. I’m still a little weak, and I’m broke as hell, but here I am, safe as I can be.” Sam stood up and strode over, gripping Steve’s shoulders. He stared down at him, eyes welling up.

“Goddammit Stevie, I thought you were a goner. I thought…” He yanked Steve into a hug, sniffing. Steve hugged him back, rubbing his back gently.

“I’m okay, Sam. I’m okay. I’m not going anywhere for a while, alright? I need to recuperate.” Sam finally pulled away, tears on his face. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Where’s Bucky?” Nat pursed her lips.

“He moved in with his uncle. They’re starting up a music store that offers lessons, since multiple people wanted lessons and Bucky needed a bigger space. He’s been around a little bit, but mostly it’s been me and Sam.” Steve sighed.

“Sorry I wasn’t home for Christmas, Sam.” Sam shook his head.

“It’s alright, man. Your presents are by the tree.” Steve’s eyes widened.

“We got a _tree_?” Nat smiled and nodded to the far corner, where a tiny little spruce stood in a pot of water.

“Courtesy of Bucky. He thought it would cheer us up.” Sam smiled.

“It did help, though we didn’t have any decorations.” Steve walked over to the tree, where three little presents awaited him, one wrapped in brown paper, and the other two in old Batman comics. The brown paper one was the biggest, and one of the Batman ones was long and looked like a cello bow.

“Please tell me those weren’t vintage,” he moaned. Sam laughed.

“Nah. I wouldn’t do that to you. They’re coloring books my gran had.” Steve sighed in relief. He squatted down and gingerly lowered himself into sitting crosslegged. He opened the bow one first, which unsurprisingly turned out to be a bow and some rosin. He looked for a tag.

“Thanks, Nat.” She ruffled his hair.

“Anything for my shrimpy cellist.” Steve laughed and opened the second Batman one, which came with a card. It was a slender rectangular wooden case.  


“This better not be what I think it is.” He unlocked the case and opened it. It was an antique violin. He scowled up at Sam, who shrugged with a smug grin.

“You should read the card later,” he said softly. Steve nodded and turned to the brown paper one. It was heavy. He shook it, and it thumped. He tore off the wrapping and revealed a folded shut cardboard box. He pulled it open, revealing a slim booklet. It was titled _Frederic Chopin: Etude in A♭ Minor, Op. 25, no. 1_. He lifted it out, revealing the Bach Six Suites. He started pulling them out one by one. Ennio Bolognini. Giuseppi Colombi. Iván Erőd. Booklet after booklet of cello solo pieces. At the very bottom of the box was a letter. Steve opened it. It read,

_Steve,_

_I’m not really good at this writing letters thing, so bear with me. I talked with Tony (well, he talked at me and I tried not to cry) about this, and I felt it best that you should know that I have feelings for you. The romantic kind. You’re obviously not interested, and that’s fine. I just thought you should know._

_I also thought you should know that I still want to be your friend. You’re a swell guy, and I really think you can make it as an artist. You should talk to Tony about doing design work for him, instead of this portraits on the street crap. I shouldn’t say crap, since you make a lot of money from it, but it’s no way to live, man._

_I don’t really know what to say. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I love you, as a friend and as something else. But mostly as a friend. If you ever need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, if you’ll let me be._

_Your pal,_

_Bucky_

Steve stared down at the letter. There was a soft gasp over his shoulder, and he turned and looked up to see Nat covering her mouth, tears welling up in her eyes. Sam whistled.

“Damn, Stevie.” Steve looked down at the letter, then folded it up gently. He gathered up the music and put it back in the box, then staggered upright.

“Where does Bucky’s uncle live?” Sam shrugged. Nat shook her head, sniffing.

“Guess you’ll have to wait for the store to reopen, man.” Steve looked up at Sam, then laughed.

“Don’t you have his number?” Sam closed his eyes and grinned sadly.

“I dunno if you should talk to him just now. Let things settle a bit.” Nat nodded in agreement. Steve looked down at the letter. His eyes stung. He rubbed them with his fingers, pushing his glasses askew.

“Oh, _Steve_ ,” Nat said softly. He laughed.

“It’s not like that, Nat. It’s just... he could’ve told me in person, y’know?” He stared over at the record player and sighed, straightening his glasses.

“Jerk.”


End file.
